


The first tears of Arda

by harnatano (orphan_account)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Valar Week, about manwe, about the first battle, be patient with me, his wrath and his regrets, so it doesn't make so much sense, written while sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4792529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/harnatano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Valar week.</p>
<p>At this point the Ainur don’t have their fana yet, they are ethereal spirits but I’ll still use words such as ‘voice’, 'face’, 'eyes’ &co to make it easier.  Also I suppose their 'voices’ is more like osanwë, but, oh well…</p>
<p>And I’ll use Belekoroz for Melkor’s Valarin name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The first tears of Arda

Manwë had feared that moment. The moment his brother would arrived, descending like a blazing flame upon Arda, ice and fire surrounding him and forming a crown above his heard, Arda itself shaking under the power of Melkor.

Fear and dread.

Melkor’s additions to the Music were already there, within Arda itself. Manwë could feel it, this sleeping sickness, a shadow that rolled beneath them, that sneaked between the interstices of the earth, floating in the air like an invisible mist Manwe’s winds couldn’t blow away.

But with Melkor’s very presence, Manwë knew it would only increased. The marks left by Melkor’s song wouldn’t fade away, they would only dig deeper, wounding Arda and every beings upon it.

The Elder King looked in himself, and allowed his mind to go back to a place filled with memories. Memories of the Timeless Halls, when the Allfather had for the forst time mentioned the Great Theme, when he had been thrilled with excitation and curiosity.

Manwë remembered. This unfamiliar feeling which had shaken his very being, transcending him and enlighting him. His brother was next to him, and both of them had shared a thought – more than a thought, they had shared the feeling itself. Melkor’s spirit had been filled with light and anticipation, and beside him, Manwë had been filled with bliss and curiosity.

Creation. They would help the Allfather, and with him they would give birth to a Tale. A great, beautiful Tale…

The wind blew upon Arda, and Manwë left his thoughts to focus on the sight before him. Melkor who, like a wave of dark clouds, slid through the air, his powers devoring everything he touched.

Arda was shaking, rocks fell down from the Mountains raised by Aulë, spitting fire and lava. Even his own winds seemed out of control and Manwë had to summon all his might to keep them calm.

Under the laments of Nienna, the attempts of Nessa and Yavanna to heal what had been undone seemed vain, for Melkor came back, again and again, undoing each new creation, spreading shadows upon a land that was supposed to be in the light. Or else, using his own inner light, the brightest, to blind and dry and hurt what he could touch

–

Finally, Melkor came to him. Like a dark torrent he spinned through the air and stood in front of Manwë. Their gazes met and both of them were silent for long while. Giving himself a birght appearance, a terrible, blinding light, Melkor looked seemedto challenge his Manwë’s sweet, peaceful glow. The Valar and their most faithful Maiar gathered behind Manwë and observed quietly the meeting, the silent talk.

“Why this madness, brother?” The Elder King finally asked aloud, making sure that they could all hear his words. “Why spoiling our creations? Is it not yours as well? Are you not part of this world, of this tale like we do?”

Behind the clouds of his sickness, Melkor gave what seemed to be a smile. “If it is my world, then why did you not invite me to the party?” Ignoring the rumor that scattered through the crowd, Melkor continued, with a voice made out of malice and hidden wrath. “Why did you not ask for my consel? I would have made this place a better dwelling if only you would have granted me this pleasure.”

“No, Belekoroz.” Manwë replied calmly, though the wound in his heart was bleedind. “You would have made Arda according to your own desire, forsaking the well-being of the Children, and depriving it from bliss and beauty.”

“Oh, how you mistaken, Mānawenūz. Arda and the Children themselves would have thanked me for my intervention, for I only wish their good.”

Confused, Manwë remembered the will of domination which had exuded from his brother’s spirit as they had gazed for the first time upon Arda. “You wish to govern them.”

“Precisely.” Melkor replied, turning to face the crowd and the vast land before him. “I know Arda and cherish it more than you will ever do, for I took my due place in the Music and poured into my song more of myself than any of you did. I am the mightiest among you, and my power sleeps in the lands you shape. Yet, my power does not suffer your will, as Arda does not suffer your manipulations. You are trying to control it, while I want to see it free.”

“How dare you talk about freedom, when you only wish to take control of it?!” It was Varda, always prompt to react and to second Manwë. “We can see through you, Belekoroz. You crave domination.”

Avoiding to look at her, Melkor rose above the crowd, his power slowly moving towards the Valie. But Manwë, in his might, rose as well, birghter than before, and summoned his winds and his might. Beside him Varda stood, her own light shining and threatening to swallow them all.But Melkor sniggered and responded with a jolt of will that forced the earth to tremble.

“Under my reign, Arda will be free, I shall deliver it from the Allfather’s bounds, and through my dominance the Children shall find a safe path to freedom.”

Madness. Nonsense. How could his brother state such absurdities? What had happened to him…?

“And you Mānawenūz…” Melkor continued, turning again to meet his brother’s eyes. “… You shall give me the command of Arda.”

“Belekoroz…” Although he had expected such a request, Manwë trembled at the statement which, in Melkor’s mouth, sounded more like an order. Yet, before he could say any other protest, Melkor spoke again. “Am I not your brother, and do you not know my power? Do you not know my heart and the sheer love I have this world? Do you not know I deserve to be king?”

A shiver ran through the crowd, the might of Melkor’s voice, the threat in his words and what they implied driving them into silence.

What they implied… Long ago, Manwë had thought his brother was the wisest, and the only one who could bare a crown. Manwë used to know his brother’s heart. He used to understand it and how dearly he had cherished it.

But not anymore.

The Ainur were staring at their king now, waiting for a reply, some of them already boiling with wrath and furor. But Melkor did not to pay attention to them, or if he did, he seemed quite pleased with their reactions.

“Your crown, Mānawenūz.” He ordered, as if Manwë’s surrender was obvious. “Give me the power to deliver Arda from Eru.”

That was it.

The Elder King would not suffer more absurdities, no more lies and insults, nor would he let his brother pollute Arda.

Already Manwë’s wrath was rising, the winds were blowing, violent winds of fury and frustration. Haggard but proud, Melkor stood still, his own will resisting to Manwë’s powers and his sniggers mocking his winds. Fire danced around Melkor, strong and high flames the winds couldn’t blow out despite their strength, and rage bubbled within Manwë, a terrifying rage he had never felt before.

Focusing on his powers, on his summons and feelings, the Elder King didn’t immediatly notice that Ulmo had risen beside him, joining his own strength, and it’s only when Manwë felt his friend’s mind brushing against his own that he remembered Eru’s words. 

_‘Behold rather the heigh and glroy of the clouds, and the everchanging mists and listen to the fall of rain upon the earth!’_

And as Manwë and Ulmo gathered their wills, as their powers rolled through the air, as clouds and winds moved upon Arda and filled the sky with a threatening heaviness, Melkor moved backwards.

Rains. Heavy drops soaking the lands and putting out the flames which were dancing around Melkor. Manwë gathered his will, thunder stroke, the loud claps echoing above the lands, setting Yavanna’s first trees on fire as Ulmo’s torrents flood the valleys. The earth growled and trembled, but this time it was not from Melkor’s powers, for all the Valar were rising and joining the fight. A fight of light and shadow, of rain and rock, of flames and ice.

–-

His bright spirit swirled and rolled above the earth, violent winds shaking the mountains and casting down the trees as they repeled Melkor’s powers. Cracks and growls from the underground, as if Arda was being split open. But Manwë could barely notice it, focused as he was on his powers.

In the dark sky, the lightnings were legions; powerful weapons against Melkor, and all his wrath Manwë poured into them. His powers ran through the sky, dark clouds threatening to fall on his brother, upon Arda, clouds of rage and anger. Melkor’s power was slipping through the earth, and the two opposite strengths were meeting in an explosive mist that blew everything around.

The First Battle they called it later, but to Manwë it wasn’t only a battle. It was a wound, an injury made to Arda. They had sealed its fate through wrath and pain.

—

Tulkas had arrived.  
Melkor was gone.

The young Vala was standing beside his king, a smile on his lips. “He left Arda, my King, like the coward he is. There are but a few chances he comes back now.”

As a reply, Manwë nodded slowly.

The wind was soft now, the fire had been put out, the rain had stopped and the earth wasn’t shaking anymore. They had won.

But the price of victory was high.

“Thank you for your help, Tulukhastāz. Thank you for coming. Your strength is our best shield against Belekoroz.” Manwë finally said absent-mindedly, with a soft, almost quiet voice, his gaze laying on the lands before him. “Thank you…”

“My lord, our enemy didn’t only flee before me. He was already greatly weakened when I arrived… Your powers–” The Vala didn’t manage to finish his sentence, for the Elder King was slowly raising his hands; a gentle sign to ask for silence.

Our enemy.  
So that’s what Melkor had become, now.  
An enemy.

“With your permission, my lord…”

“Yes Tulukhastāz , you may leave.”

And as Tulkas left, Manwë observed Arda, his mind flying above the mountains and underground. It was ruined. All of their works, all the beauty was gone. Melkor had left, but his might was still there, as he had said, sleeping within Arda.

What had they done?  
War. A terrible mistake.

Arda was crying now, licking the wounds inflicted by their wrath, and what had been done and destroyed would never come back.

_‘Something new will come from it.’_

The Allfather’s voice in his broken heart.

_‘Do not lose hope.’_

His soul was crying, echoing with Nienna’s laments, and slowly Manwë kneeled down. He touched the ground; Arda’s pain resonated through his very being. “What have I done?”

No reply came from Eru, nor from anyone, and for the first time in his existence, the Elder King felt terribly alone.

And cold.

And he wondered, as his mind brushed against the essence of Arda, if this harrowing feeling would ever go away.


End file.
